


The Creation of Ryan

by tricklesnitz



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: ASL, Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Deaf Character, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Mild Transphobia, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Drugs, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-17 15:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16098527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricklesnitz/pseuds/tricklesnitz
Summary: "I think I finally like myself."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be Headcanon heavy. It has trans Ryan, trans Jeremy, trans Jack, NB Matt, and other headcanons I like, like Deaf/HOH Michael.

In Los Santos, nobody could stop him from being Ryan. In Los Santos nobody could make him go by the name he never wanted to hear again. In Los Santos nobody would get onto him for wearing loose, baggy jeans and men’s shirts, “like a lesbian, honey, wear those dresses I bought and show off the beautiful body God gave you,” and nobody would bother him about grabbing his ponytail at the base and hacking at it with his pocket knife until it came away in his hand, messy and uneven.

Nobody could stop him from wearing a cheap, rubbery skull mask to hide the soft curve of his jaw and nobody could make him talk, only to reveal the voice that was way too feminine for how he feels (He felt much more scary when he was silent and nobody could see his expressions, anyways).

Another thing was that nobody could stop him from holding up a convenience store if he really fucking wanted to.

And he really fucking wanted to.

So he tucked a gun into the waistband of his jeans and a knife in his jacket pocket and pulled the mask over his face and left the shitty hotel he was staying in. The convenience store was a bit of a walk, but Ryan didn’t care. He wanted the adrenaline that came with robbing a store.

The first time he’d had a taste of that particular brand of adrenaline was when he first got to Los Santos from Villanow, Georgia. He’d used the last of his cash to get there in the first place, and needed more to check into the hotel he’d booked.

And what a place that was. The Ah Chew Hotel. Cheapest place he could find on short notice, never mind the stupid name.

Ryan dropped the duffel bag onto the counter of the convenience store and peeled it open. The gaping maw of canvas stared up at the cashier and Ryan waited expectantly.

The cashier burst out laughing and gripped the counter. “Really? Not even a threat? That’s it?” So Ryan pulled out his knife (a tiny little keychain hunting knife) and flicked it open. That didn’t help. “Look, dude, my pinky finger is a sharper knife than that. Get outta here before I call the cops.”

Ryan flipped the knife and slammed it point first in between the cashier’s fingers. “Didn’t think I needed one.” God, he hated talking, even when he tried to force his voice as low as it would go; it sounded almost comedic to his own ears. “Thought the bag was a clue enough to what I wanted.” He let go of the knife to cross his arms over his chest.

The cashier flicked his eyes over Ryan’s frame, eyebrows raising in some sickening understanding. “You ain’t even a dude. Sorry, _miss_. I didn’t realize.”

That was the last straw. Something about that felt bad, disgusting, wrong, like slime sliding over his skin and sticking down his clothes. Ryan pulled the gun from the waistband of his jeans and flicked the safety off. “Is this enough of a threat?” He aimed it between the cashier’s eyes and cocked it.

Judging by the way the cashier swallowed hard and opened up the register, it was threat enough.

“H-how much, ma’am? A-all of it?” the cashier stammered.

Ryan shot him.

He didn’t feel like a woman, no matter how his voice sounded or what his body looked like. Ryan grumbled to himself as he slipped around the cash wrap to empty out the register himself. He hated getting mistaken for a woman, and he couldn’t shake how _wrong_ it felt.

“Yeah, it was definitely this one,” another voice spoke up from the doorway. Ryan lifted his head--standing just inside the store was a person with a leather jacket and a hand to his ear. “Someone replaced the cashier.” The guy aimed a rakish grin at Ryan.

Ryan aimed his gun and cocked it again.

“Look, buddy, you don’t wanna do that,” the person said, pulling a gun twice as big from the pocket of his jacket and pointing it right back at Ryan. He stepped closer and Ryan darted his eyes to the gun. The safety was still on. “Take off the mask for me?” he asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“Okay, we’ll leave it on. You gotta name?”

“Uh.” Ryan was hesitant to speak at all, lest he get shot.

“Well, _Uh_ , my name’s Michael. Never seen you around before. You new to Los Santos?” Michael asked carefully, edging closer. His thumb crept towards the safety on his gun. Ryan never lowered his.

Ryan nodded.

“Why’d you shoot the guy?” Michael gestured with his gun. “He put up a fight?”

“Called me _miss_ ,” Ryan said. “Not a miss.”

“Yikes.” Michael grimaced. “Good thing, then. Don’t want any misgendering assholes runnin’ around this shithole of a city. We got enough pieces of shit to deal with that don’t bring gender into the mix.”

Ryan hesitated again.

“‘M serious,” Michael said, still careful. “Don’t like it when others get misgendered.”

“Why are you here?” Ryan cut to the point. “Are you going to call the cops?”

Michael snorted. “Nah,” he dismissed easily. “Was just drivin’ by after work.” The grin returned to his face, “and heard the gunshot.”

Ryan felt the ‘after work’ paired with a grin of that caliber hinted at something he should have understood, like he should have known something he didn’t. He lowered his gun.

“So, _Uh_ ,” Michael called, tucking his gun back into his jacket and turning on his heel, “watch the news when you get home. Might just see a familiar face.” And with a wink, Michael left Ryan standing behind a register, confused and clutching a dufflebag full of cash with one hand.

\---

Ryan didn’t see any familiar faces on the news at first; just reporters talking about Maze Bank being broken into at the same time as Fleeca and Union.

“Today at four fifty-seven PM, members of the Fake AH Crew were seen entering three banks in Los Santos and causing enough havoc to distract while they robbed the vaults. Again.” The reporter shuffled papers and folded her hands on the desk.

Security footage with “PROPERTY OF MAZE BANK” scrolling across the bottom and a time-stamp in the top corner flashed up on screen. One figure--the one in a tux--headed straight for the back while the other--one in a vaguely familiar brown leather jacket--stayed up front, in full view of the security camera.

What he said in the footage went unheard, but it was apparently enough to send everyone in view of the security camera to their knees. Michael turned and blew a kiss at the camera.

The rifle in his hands sent Ryan’s heart into his throat. He’d gotten off easy, if Michael showed up to the convenience store he’d robbed after _this_ where he’d had _that_.

And anyways, after having to shoot the cashier over _not being threatening enough_ , he was going to have to learn to be scarier. The next time he ran into Michael, he hoped to have a better reputation.

\---

The next time he ran into Michael he’d been working on his own long enough to build up at least somewhat of a reputation, and Michael let him know that.

“Here.” Ryan tossed a Ziploc baggie holding a couple of fingers at him. “Sorry about your informant.”

“Is this all that’s left of ‘im?” Michael asked, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. Ryan shrugged, made a so-so gesture, and then nodded. “ _Damn_ , son. You take care of people this cleanly? I’m gonna have to introduce you to the boss.”

Ryan hesitated.

“Don’t worry.” Michael cut into the silence that stretched between them. “We could use someone as scary as you.”

“I’m scary?”

“Hell yeah, dude, you haven’t heard the stories they tell about you?”

Ryan shook his head. The world tilted a bit, then just as quickly righted itself.

That wasn’t good.

“If I didn’t know you’d shot a guy _just_ for misgendering you and you handed me a baggie of fingers, I’d be scared shitless!”

The heat of the warehouse they were in had a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face under the mask. “You mean you’re not?” he asked, hoping to come across as jokey. Michael laughed.

“Hey, I could introduce you to the boss now, if you want,” Michael offered, gesturing with the baggie of fingers. “This is our warehouse--he’s probably here.”

Ryan shook his head quickly, trying to ignore the slower tilting that came after. He hadn’t showered in days; his hair was greasy, he probably smelled homeless, and the sweltering warehouse wasn’t helping.

Vaguely, he wondered how Michael could be wearing the jacket.

He swayed a bit on his feet, then staggered to keep his balance.

“Dude,” Michael sounded hesitant, cautious. Wary, almost. Maybe something was wrong behind him. “You alright?”

\---

“--Is this who you’ve been talking about? What’s his name?”

Ryan couldn’t feel his mask. The cool weight of a damp washcloth over his eyes instead was a relief from the heat of the warehouse, however. His throat was _killing_ him, and his head pounded with every footstep that brought the voices closer.

“He just fuckin’ fell out in the warehouse last night. What was I gonna do, Jack? Leave him?”

“Aw! My little boi has a conscience!” A third voice piped up, followed by a dull thud and a gurgling squawk.

He _wanted_ to stay quiet; _wanted_ to see what else they had to say about him, Michael and Jack and this ...other voice. A cough erupted out of him instead, forcing him to sit up and curl an arm around his face to muffle the noise in the crook of his elbow.

The washcloth fell to the blanket spread across his lap with a wet _plop_.

“Hi.” A heavyset woman with vibrantly red hair smiled gently at him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Where the fuck’s my mask?” he croaked. He hoped the look of surprise at how raspy his voice had become wasn’t apparent. With the mask he hadn’t needed to learn how to school his expressions.

Michael stooped, picked it up off the coffee table in front of him, and flung it at Ryan. “Answer Jack’s question. She--just like me, obviously--is your gracious host. Show some goddamn respect.”

Ryan clutched his mask to his chest and glared Michael down. “I feel like shit,” he muttered, annoyed at Michael’s _come on already_ gesturing. “You didn’t have to bring me wherever the hell _this_ is,” he shot next, dropping his arms and fidgeting with the edge of the rubber.

Michael snorted. “And leave you passed out in the warehouse? Man, I barely know you, but fuck if I’ll do that.” His glare shifted from Ryan to the other person in the room at a poorly muffled giggle.

“Who is that,” Ryan deadpanned. If he was going to be here, he was going to know names. He picked up the washcloth and slung it over the back of his neck. It felt _heavenly_.

“That’s my boi, that’s Gavin.” Ryan could tell that Michael was never _really_ mad at Gavin by the tiny smile starting to peek through the glower.

“What time is it?” Another question. Ryan was trying to gauge how long he’d been in an unfamiliar place. Some part of him was glad he didn’t strike out at whoever had been closest when he regained consciousness. Jack, who was closest, shifted her weight. Michael jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the clock on the wall behind him.

10:03 AM.

Ryan had been asleep on an unfamiliar couch for _seventeen hours_.

No, scratch that, he _passed out in an unfamiliar warehouse_ , was carried who-knows-how-far _away from_ said warehouse, and spent _as far as he knew_ seventeen hours on an unfamiliar couch.

He should have been watching himself better.

“You thirsty?” Jack asked him, catching him off-guard enough to stop his self-defense planning. “I want to give the poor thing a fucking haircut, it looks like he did it with a knife,” she directed, half under her breath, to Gavin.

He _had_ done it with a knife. But a haircut sounded great. He cleared his throat. Jack looked back at him, guilt splashed across her face because he’d heard her. “I’m very thirsty,” he said instead of asking for the haircut.

Jack was very open for a member of a gang in Los Santos, but all it did was make Ryan want to trust her. He assumed it was a carefully-constructed facade, but the way Gavin and Michael (as far as Ryan had seen) treated her, it didn’t seem to be so.

“I would also very much like a haircut,” he tacked on, grinning as her face flushed a brilliant red.


	2. Chapter 2

“Okay!” Jack said, twisting her fingers into a lock of her hair. “Let me get you a glass of water, and--Gavin, my haircutting scissors?” Gavin nodded once and gave Jack a small salute before darting off.

“What do you want me to do?” Michael asked, folding his arms over his chest. Jack pointed to a closet just visible from the hallway.

“Get the mat and some towels,” she instructed. Then she pointed to another doorway. “Spread out the mat and put a stool from the breakfast bar on it.” Michael nodded and the two of them split, leaving Ryan on the couch.

He’d barely closed his eyes again when Jack came back and was pressing a glass of water and a sealed two-pill packet into his hands. “It’s just Tylenol, don’t worry,” she said when she noticed him eyeing it warily. Ryan tore open the packet and swallowed the pills and most of the glass of water while Jack looked on and nodded proudly.

Behind them, a door whooshed open. Jack looked up and waved, smiling widely. “Geoff, welcome back!” and then she directed her attention to Ryan again. “I think we might want to wash your hair before I cut it,” she said, reaching out to comb her fingers through it. The movement of his hair hurt all the way down to the roots. “Do you feel up to showering?”

Ryan shook his head.

“Okay, we can wash it in the sink.” Jack smiled gently.

“Who is this? What the fuck is he doing in my living room?” A voice from behind the couch made Ryan jump.

“That’s the guy that handed me the baggie of fingers,” Michael grunted, dragging over a barstool from the kitchen. “Jack’s cleanin’ him up, he looks like shit--no offense.” Ryan shrugged.

“Okay but  _ why  _ is he  _ here _ ,” Geoff replied, walking into the kitchen and coming out with a glass of water.

Michael paused. Gestured to the barstool on the old tablecloth. Jerked his chin up in a  _ we just went over this _ motion.

“Get my shampoo out of the bathroom, Geoff,” Jack instructed. She was still touching Ryan’s hair, uncaring that it was greasy, flipping the strands this way and that and pushing it out of his face.

Geoff grumbled as he set his water down on the table in front of the couch, but did as he was told.

Ryan loathed to admit it, but he felt better once his hair, at least, was clean. Once she’d washed it, Jack squeezed the extra water out with one of the towels Michael had brought her, draped it around his shoulders and held it shut with a hair clip that looked like a claw, and guided him to sit on the stool in the living room.

Gavin handed Jack two pairs of scissors (that, to Ryan, looked exactly the same) and a comb, and then stepped back, attention focused elsewhere. Ryan noticed his jacket draped over the back of a chair against the wall and let himself relax a bit; they hadn’t gotten rid of his things--though, why would they?

Jack dragged the comb through his hair and started trimming, again pulling his hair this way and that, but with the comb this time.

A hand reached its way into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “What are you doing?” he snapped. The arm tensed, and then relaxed again.

“Just looking, s’all,” Gavin’s voice came, along with a flick of his wrist. Ryan’s wallet fell open, and Gavin slid out his driver’s license. “What,  _ that _ ’s your name?” Gavin giggled. “Boi, listen, it’s J--”

Gavin cut himself off with a squawk at the same time Jack shouted “Hey! I was using those!” and the haircutting scissors embedded themselves into the wall. Ryan’s glare definitely wasn’t as impressive from under wet, half-trimmed hair, but it got the point across.

“Put my wallet back,” he snarled. “Try that again and next time I won’t miss.” Gavin scrambled to obey, clumsily stuffing Ryan’s license back into his wallet and his wallet back into his jacket, while Jack attempted to yank the scissors back out of the wall and stared down at them with a sigh when they didn’t budge.

“Gavin!” Michael snapped a moment later. “Seriously! We’ve  _ talked  _ about this! Don’t take things that aren’t yours if the owner’s  _ in the goddamn room _ !” Ryan looked and, predictably, Gavin was grumpily sticking his pocket knife back into his jacket.

Jack was putting the finishing touches on his hair when Geoff came and stood in front of him. “Okay,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve charmed Jack and impressed Michael--two of the hardest to get to members of my crew--so I basically have no choice by now.” He held a hand out. “We’re gonna put you on temporary probation to see how you work with the rest of us, but consider yourself hired.”

\---

“So, what do you think?” Jack turned Ryan to face the mirror over the sink in the giant bathroom she’d lead him to.

“A-about my hair, or Geoff basically welcoming me into the crew?” Still, out of habit, Ryan pushed his fingers through his hair before he looked.

“I mostly meant your hair, but that too.” Jack rubbed his shoulders.

Ryan looked at himself after several beats of silence where he avoided it--six foot two, too curvy for how he felt, and finally a haircut that didn’t make him look like a shitty boy band reject. “I like it. My hair, I mean. Thank you.” He gave Jack a tiny smile, which she returned easily. “I don’t know about the… crew thing, though.”

“Don’t worry too much about it. You’re scary with that mask on. I like you, Michael likes you. Geoff likes you, since the two of us do. Jeremy will like you and Gavin will stop being scared of you eventually.” Jack gave his shoulders a squeeze and then let him go.

Ryan had no idea who Jeremy was but kept it to himself; if he was supposed to know, he’d find out eventually. “That, uh… wasn’t really what I was worried about, but thank you.” He hitched his shoulders up.

“Everyone lives in this building, by the way,” Jack said, taking his elbow and leading him back out of the bathroom. What an abrupt subject change. “We can send someone for your stuff if you wanna lay down for a bit longer.”

Laying down sounded heavenly. “Yeah,” he said. “That, uh. I was staying at the Ah Chew Hotel.”

“We know,” Jack said cheerfully. “That’s one of our places.”

“Oh. Uh, okay.”  _ Why even ask him then? _ he thought grumpily. “Why do you guys own hotels?” he asked instead.

“Why not?” Jack replied, shrugging one shoulder. “They bring in a little extra between jobs. The Ah Chew is Jeremy’s.”

The name still meant nothing to Ryan.

Jack pushed open a door to reveal a plain looking room, empty save a bed and a dresser. “You can lay down in here for now,” she said, gesturing inside.

“Thank you.”

“Jack,  _ Jack _ , listen to this--” footsteps thumping down the hall gave way to Geoff, laughing rudely into his phone. “Say it again, Gus!” he demanded of the person on the other line, tapping at his phone screen.

“I  _ said _ , you can’t fucking call dibs on a person, Geoff!” A tinny voice erupted out of Geoff’s phone (which was  _ gold plated, seriously? _ ). “Especially not the Black Skull!”

“Well guess what, asshole, he’s part of my crew so I called dibs!” Geoff crowed, triumphant.

“Seriously?  _ Seriously _ ? What did I just fucking say!” The voice on the other end of the line sounded frustrated beyond belief.

“Black Skull is a FAKE now so  _ suck my fat cock _ !”

“Fuck you, I’m not getting anywhere near your junk!”

Ryan exchanged a look with Jack, who shooed Geoff away with a small dismissive motion and a disapproving look.

“Is he always that exciting?” Ryan asked cautiously, settling himself onto the edge of the bed and pulling at his bootlaces.

“You get used to it.” Jack sighed. “Honestly, though, he’s more fun than the other assholes in Los Santos--there’s no pressure to be serious all the time.”

“ _ All _ the other assholes?” Ryan looked up from his shoes with a raised brow.

“The other crew bosses,” Jack clarified. “There are a lot of assholes in this city. Anyways, you rest up, okay? We’ll have your stuff here in no time.”

-

The next time Ryan opened his eyes, his duffel bags were sitting just inside the door and it was dark outside. He dug into one of his duffel bags for a fresh set of clothes and changed before wandering out to the main room.

There was a new face on the couch, distractedly talking to Jack, who held a wine glass delicately between her fingers.

New Face looked up at him from the television and immediately fumbled the controller he was holding. The purple dragon on the screen went tellingly still. “Whoa, what the fuck, who is that,” New Face sputtered.

Ryan fought down an immediate surge of  _ what if he thinks I’m a woman _ to answer, “I’m Ryan.” Thankfully, his voice was hoarse enough that he didn’t have to force it deeper. He hid a cough in the elbow of his hoodie, then watched New Face pick the controller back up as if he’d never dropped it.

Jack snickered. “Ryan, this is Jeremy. Not the  _ final _ member of our crew, but the latest.” She gestured between them with her glass.

“My punctuality is none of their business,” Jeremy quipped, focus back on his game again.

“Anyways,” Jack pressed on after a beat too long of silence. “You missed dinner by a little bit, but there should still be some in the kitchen for you.”

Jack pointed him towards the kitchen (which Ryan thought was unnecessary because she washed his hair in the kitchen sink before she cut it, but he appreciated the direction all the same). He wandered in and, upon seeing the bowl of soup accompanied by a hunk of bread, realized that he could possibly be hungry, despite not feeling his best.

“What pronouns does Ryan use?” he heard Jeremy ask. “Nobody ever said. Not even Gavin, and we all know he’s always in everyone else’s business.”

“He and him, I guess. He hasn’t told us any different,” Jack’s reply was quiet, but still carried through the open door of the kitchen.

“Okay,  cuz… I mean… he doesn’t look like a Ryan.”

“Jeremy.” Jack sounded a little snippy.

“Hey, c’mon. I didn’t used to look like a Jeremy. Maybe he’s just gettin’ started.”

“Or maybe he’s enby like Matt.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But… I dunno. I get kinda lonely being the only trans man in the crew sometimes. There’s nobody to talk about boy things like fake dicks and testosterone.”

“Don’t push him.”

“Aw, Jack, why would I do that? What am I, the Gender Police?”

Trans man.

Yeah.

That was Ryan.

Ryan carried his bowl of soup into the living room and perched on the couch, separating himself from Jeremy by a cushion’s space. “I am, I guess. Not the gender police, I mean.” He shoveled a spoonful of soup into his mouth.

“A trans man?” Jeremy supplied, not outwardly embarrassed to have been eavesdropped on, unlike Jack--who was having this happen to her a second time that day.

Ryan nodded. “First time I’ve said so, I think,” he said once his mouth was clear of food.

“Hey, congrats, man.” Jeremy grinned at him, and it took him by surprise how quickly his expression changed to a more serious one a moment later. “Don’t spill your soup in here, also. The rug cost two million dollars. Not like we can’t afford another one or anything, but Geoff would be  _ pissed _ .”

Ryan wiggled his toes against the carpet. “Don’t spill. Got it.”

“It was a gift,” Jack leered over the rim of her glass. “For me. Of course he’d be mad.” Her grin was only barely hidden by her drink.

“Geoff bought you a  _ rug _ ?” Ryan furrowed his eyebrows.

“Geoff had it custom made with the crew’s logo,” Geoff grunted as he pushed himself over the back of the couch and settled in between Ryan and Jeremy.

“Geoff thought a rug with the crew’s logo on it would be a good way to flirt with me.” Jack sipped her drink.

“It worked though,” Geoff shot back. “The rug and the shoes and the fifteen pounds of pure smack.”

“That smack did earn Mama plenty of spending money.” Jack drained her glass and set it aside.

Ryan felt as though he was intruding and turned his attention to the soup in his hands.

“Get a room, geez!” Jeremy waved his controller at the pair of them, jostling Ryan in the process.

“Aw, is poor baby Lil J jealous he’s not gettin’ any love from Papa Geoff?” Geoff cooed, wrapping an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders and scooping him in close.

“I never wanna hear you say any of that again,” Jeremy deadpanned, but the notion was lost by immediately giggling through loud, smacking kisses on his cheek.

Ryan was definitely intruding on something. He could feel his face turning redder and redder the longer Geoff lavished Jeremy with affection.

He stood and headed for the kitchen again, intending on finishing his meal there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've literally had this sitting fully written for three fucking years.

**Author's Note:**

> If this seems familiar but you can't find the other fic you think this is like, I'll be blunt: it is. It's rewritten and reposted from my old account. I decided to continue it, yeah. About three years later.  
> /Shrug emoji  
> Fight me


End file.
